


Underneath the Mistletoe Last Night

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Complete, Consensual Underage Sex, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, F/M, Nipple Play, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Man, Pregnancy Kink, Sexual Inexperience, Size Difference, Sleepy Sex, Woman on Top, holiday smut, kinda teacher-student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:42:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21888349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: Response to a kink meme prompt: "John and Dean have to stay at the Roadhouse for a short while. During this time Dean (15/17) and Jo (14/16) start fooling around together. One day Ellen and John catch them having sex without their knowledge.The adults can clearly see that the teenagers are inexperienced and the sex looks pretty bad (Jo's moans sound fake, Dean has no rhythm, uncomfortable position, etc..). So they decide to take matters into their own hands. Ellen will teach Dean how to be a good lover and John will teach Jo."Full prompt is in the notes.  Read the tags and note that, while there is nothing non-con, there is an age difference and some of the characters are teenage/underage.  Yes, the title is from "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"--the Elvis version, naturally!
Relationships: Ellen Harvelle & John Winchester, Ellen Harvelle/Dean Winchester, Jo Harvelle/Dean Winchester, Jo Harvelle/John Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106
Collections: Supernatural Kink Meme





	1. oh, what a laugh it would have been

**Author's Note:**

> The full prompt, from the SPN kink meme: (https://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/154807.html?thread =47288759#t47288759)
> 
> John and Dean have to stay at the Roadhouse for a short while. During this time Dean (15/17) and Jo (14/16) start fooling around together. One day Ellen and John catch them having sex without their knowledge.  
> The adults can clearly see that the teenagers are inexperienced and the sex looks pretty bad (Jo's moans sound fake, Dean has no rhythm, uncomfortable position, etc..). So they decide to take matters into their own hands. Ellen will teach Dean how to be a good lover and John will teach Jo.  
> Ellen/Dean: lots of breast play, mommy kink, Dean "nursing" from her as they have sex. I'd love for Dean to be super horny and coming really fast and Ellen making him fuck her through it. Ellen keeping him going commando in basketball shorts/sweats all the time so everyone can see whenever he gets hard for her.  
> John/Jo: again breast play, with emphasis on how small/perky Jo's breasts are. Daddy kink, size kink with John being bigger than Dean and Jo doing her best to adjust. Would love an oral sex scene where John just loses it and comes all over her face. Not against pregnancy kink.  
> Neither of them younger than 14 please

“El!”

Ellen is about $50 short of cashing out the Roadhouse’s last cash register after the craziest week of the year—in rural Nebraska, people drink more the weekend after Thanksgiving than they do for Super Bowl and July 4th combined—but something in John Winchester’s voice makes her look up and lose count.

He’s standing at the swinging dutch door that separates the bar from the kitchen, biting his lip to keep from smiling. His eyes dance with glee. “Come here,” he mouths, beckoning. She turns to slam the register, ‘cause the one on the far left always sticks, and he puts a finger to his lips, signaling _quiet_.

Ellen should be annoyed with him, standing there like a little boy with a secret, distracting her when all she wants is to finish this final task and go to bed. But it warms her heart that he can predict her movements so exactly. She and John Winchester have known each other a long, long time.

So she creeps exaggeratedly down the length of the bar, pausing to look theatrically over her shoulder at the empty Roadhouse. When she looks back, John is rolling his eyes and giving her the finger. Now she’s the one trying not to laugh. 

At the kitchen door, he blocks her for a minute: the broad height of him obscuring her view. He smells like leather and smoke and moves not a millimeter when she shoves at his shoulder to get past him. Jerk.

“What’d you bring me over here for if—” Ellen pretends annoyance, but she’s still whispering. This is the game they play.

John puts his finger on her lip now and…she can hear it. Faint noises—heavy breathing—a muffled gasp. The sounds are unmistakable once she remembers that she’d sent Jo back here to untangle the Christmas lights they hang from the façade every year to bring in tourists. That must have been half an hour ago at least and she hasn’t seen Dean Winchester in all that time. 

Ellen looks up at John, her eyes wide: they are _not_! John nods wryly, reading her mind _Oh, yes, they most certainly are_. He steps back, letting her into the kitchen, and nods toward the room the bar staff calls the Utility. That space is definitely not the one that Ellen would have chosen for a romantic rendezvous. It is an odd, forgotten little lean-to, probably intended as cold storage back when the Roadhouse was first built. Now it is used to store extra lightbulbs and paper towels for the bathrooms, broken furniture Ellen hasn’t gotten around to sorting out, those damn Christmas lights. The ceiling slants at an awkward angle. There’s no insulation, so the room is always cold. Really, Ellen thinks, Jo could have done better for herself.

Ellen supposes most of her neighbors would be shocked—shocked!—to hear a teenage daughter getting it on in the back room. But Ellen’s no fool, and she’s not a hypocrite, either. She’s a widowed single mother and a small-business owner, both of which have made her ruthlessly pragmatic. You’d have to be blind to see that Dean Winchester is anything but gorgeous and Jo has been mooning over him since he walked through the door. The way those two quarrel and fuss at each other hadn’t deceived Ellen for a second. Besides, the day was bound to come: it’s been years since Ellen first gave Jo The Talk, a chapter-and-verse accounting of the whys and wherefores that put the local public school’s cursory Sex Ed curriculum to rightful shame. In a nutshell: if you both like it and he treats you good, go to town; anything less and you kick him to the curb. Not long after Jo got her learner’s permit, Ellen had quietly unlocked the parental controls from their internet account, driven Jo three towns over to find a doctor who would prescribe birth control to a high schooler, and hoped for the best.

The best, this is not. One of the inconveniences of the Utility is that the door hangs crooked, pulling itself open any time it isn’t latched shut. Jo and Dean are too caught up in each other to have remembered the latch. Ellen and John can’t quite see what their kids are up to, but they can see a partial reflection in the glass of the wall oven on the opposite wall. Jo is leaning over a rickety table, one long leg clumsily hitched up. Dean’s behind her, his ass pumping arrythmically, his jeans hanging around his knees. Jo must be whispering instructions—Ellen knows that bossy tone, though she can’t make out the words—with Dean occasionally grunting agreement. Ellen backs out of the kitchen with a hand pressed to her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. It seems strange to say it, but the whole thing is kind of _sweet_ in an utterly awkward way, like a baby deer learning to run, like the first hopeless time Jo tried to parallel park.

“Aw, c’mon now, Ellen,” John keeps his voice low as he follows her into the main room, trying to keep a straight face, “everybody’s gotta learn.” They catch each other’s eye and he has to look away, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. 

“We,” Ellen hisses, trying to stay quiet, “were _never_ that bad when we were their age.”

“Speak for yourself! I remember a few ungraceful encounters before I became the experienced gentleman you see before you…”

The very idea of John Winchester humping away in a dusty storage room… Ellen has to fumble for a glass, fill it hastily at the bar tap and gulps down some water before her laughter gives her away. She hoists herself onto one of the bar stools, sensing John settle in next to her. It’s funny to think that she had met him when she was not much older than Jo is now. He’d been Bill Harvelle’s best friend and the three of them had gotten up to more than they would ever admit to. Bill and her and Mary and John; marriage, babies, loss, anger: their lives had moved on parallel courses for awhile. And now here they are again, looking at each other’s reflections in the mirror behind the bar, the one that Jo had decked in gold foil garland right before Ellen had sent her looking for those Christmas lights. 

“Sometimes, I just wish I could tell her…” Ellen starts, not quite sure how to finish. She’s known Dean Winchester since he was a mouthy, overprotective little grade-schooler with a heart two sizes too big. He’s a good kid, loyal and honest and giving. He and Jo will figure out what they like eventually—everyone does. She just wishes...well, that they could skip all that early doubt and frustration and inelegance, get to the fun part that much sooner. Jo hasn’t had all that much fun in her life.

“Know what you mean,” replies John, shaking his head. And Ellen really believes he does. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve commiserated about their kids. After all, there aren’t many single parents in the small, straight-laced towns where she and John have raised theirs, no one who knows what threats and dangers are really out there. 

“But Jo’s not one to take direction.”

“Dean, neither. Heaven forbid you hurt his pride.”

“Oh, I think you just have to phrase things the right way with him,” Ellen says. She’s always had a soft spot for John’s eldest, likes the way he looks after his little brother. She’d never criticize but, privately, she thinks John is unnecessarily hard on him sometimes.

John snorts. “Maybe so. But what saint has the patience?”

Their minds come to the idea at the same moment. Ellen can see the knowledge in the reflection of John’s face—knows he sees it in hers. She could…with Dean. And he and Jo…

She takes a sip of water. It’s a crazy idea. The sort of idea that comes when you’re used to having to solve all your family problems in a vacuum, untrusting of doctors, schools, the state, all the trappings of an ignorant society blind to the world’s true and dangerous nature. On the other hand, life is short and unpredictable: Ellen wants Jo to get as much joy out of it as she can, as safely as possible. She’d no more leave her to graceless teenaged boys, even good-hearted ones, than she’d have skipped that appointment with the birth control doctor. John would be gentle with her, teach her what she should be asking for. Ellen knows he would, because that’s how she would be with Dean.

“Well, I’m no saint,” she tells John, “But I’d do my best.”

“I wouldn’t—” John starts, looking down at his empty hands on the bar, and then over at Ellen, sidelong. “I mean, I could never ask her to…”

“But if she asked you?” 

John hesitates, and Ellen is reminded that he is his son’s father—loyal and honest and giving. Aware of his looks and his strength and how easy it would be for him to get what he wants just by demanding it. “If she asked me,” he concludes.

“Well then.” Ellen realizes that she is still basically whispering, that this whole conversation, this pact—John will teach her child about pleasure and she will teach his—has been conducted quietly so as not to alert the teenagers in the next room. She slides off the stool and walks around the bar. When she slams the sticky cash register drawer closed with a clang, the noises in the backroom (the whispers, a moan, the creak of that solid old table) cease abruptly.


	2. down the stairs to have a peek

John couldn’t say for sure, but he suspects that Dean was Jo’s very first. He’s half-tempted to ask Ellen but somehow, after their quiet pact on what to do, they seem to have also agreed not to talk about what the kids get up to in the Utility. So all he’s got is the evidence of his eyes. There’s just something about her that blossoms over the next few weeks. Call it confidence. A new awareness of what her body can do, a curiosity about how far she can go.

She flirts a little more obviously, sitting a little closer to Dean, wearing a little less despite the season’s chill. And not just Dean. The weather’s terrible—a wet, heavy Plains snowfall that freezes two days after Thanksgiving—and John is waiting on some research that Bobby keeps saying is almost done, nearly there. Ellen lets them stay on as the weeks roll closer to Christmas and John has plenty of time to see the way Jo sashays across the Roadhouse floor to wait tables, how she touches one man’s wrist when she takes his cash, how she let’s another buy her a drink. 

“Better be Coca-cola in that glass,” John had observed, and he’s only half-joking.

“Yes, _Daddy_. Whatever you say, _Daddy_ ,” Jo said. And she’d meant it sarcastically—can’t possibly know how hearing that word in her voice catches in his mind. Can she?

It takes most of a Saturday to get all the lights strung on the Roadhouse façade. 

“Thought you said you’d tested them all?” grumbles Sammy when he finds yet another string that won’t work because one bulb is dead.

“Must’ve missed some,” Dean replies shortly. Jo coughs, trying to cover a snort. She, of course, knows just what they were up to when they should have been organizing the holiday lights. It is Dean who blushes.

They have a bucket brigade going, with Sammy handing the lights to Jo, who is up on a ladder steadied by Dean. John is handling the patched together extension cords.

“We should use the extras on the barn,” Jo suggests, meaning the rickety old hay loft barn that is perched up the hill from the Roadhouse. “It would look so good from the road!”

John’s not much of a believer in “a woman’s touch” or “feminine intuition” or that sort of crap. And he loves his boys and wouldn’t trade them for anything. But he does sometimes think there is some kind of sensibility missing from their lives. Sam and Dean are observant kids, they’ve had to be, but they never spare a moment for beautifying the world.

“It’s cold,” Sam complains, “And I told Ash I’d help him with the trainset.” Ash is a little older than Sam and lives on one of the neighboring farms where, John suspects, his brand of freakish intelligence is less valued that his meager ability as a farmhand. Ellen has a soft-spot for him, as she does for most mis-fits, and lets him take over a card-table in the Roadhouse every Christmas for a Rube-Goldberg train village.

Dean, always practical, points out “And it’s getting dark.” 

“I’ll pull the Impala around. Turn the headlights on,” John decrees. “Sam, you know Ash is always late, you could stand to help out for a bit. As for you,” he turns to Dean, “did you get around to shoveling the back? 

“Yes, sir,” Sam says.

“No, sir,” Dean says.

“Well, then,” John says.

Ellen uses the barn as a garage, so John just has to throw open the large doors for the Impala’s headlights to illuminate their project. Dean starts shoveling at the barn itself and works his way toward the Roadhouse. Sam climbs into the car, blasts the heater, and scans through radio stations until he finds one playing Christmas music. Snowballs are thrown. Really, within fifteen minutes, it’s mostly John and Jo actually hanging Christmas lights, but it is fun anyway. 

They work quickly, reaching around each other at the lower level, and then John holding the ladder while Jo climbs to hang the last few strands. She’s wearing jeans and boots and a thick old barn coat, but he is aware of her body nevertheless. Aware of how close she is. Aware, when they finish with the last set of lights, of how alone they are. Dean has shoveled his way down to the Roadhouse and is probably defrosting over hot chocolate in the kitchen. Sammy disappeared as soon as Ash had shouted up the hill. When they hang the last strand, John goes into the barn to turns off the Impala’s radio and pulls the key from the ignition. The silence I sudden, but Sam left the heat running and it’s warm as a house inside. Or maybe John is warm for another reason. When he steps out of the barn again, the cold steals his breath.

“It’s perfect,” Jo says quietly, and John over at her. Her face is pink from the cold and washed with colored lights as she surveys the decorated barn. She’s tugged off her winter hat and her long hair is tangled like she’s just woken up. They’re fully dressed outside in the cold, but seeing her like this—flushed cheeks, bed-head—feels shockingly intimate. Suddenly, Jo bites her lip and looks away. It’s like she knows just what John is thinking.

“I, uhm,” Jo begins. She licks her lips. They’ll chap in this weather if she keeps that up, John thinks. “Uh. There’s snow in my boots,” she concludes. She brushes past him—closer than necessary—to step into the barn. 

Ellen keeps her old Jeep parked behind the Roadhouse, so the garage holds little more than Bill Harvelle’s old tool bench, the ladder they just used to hang lights, and now the Impala. The heat from the car has brought out the fragrance of warm hay, even though there probably haven’t been animals kept here since before Ellen bought the place. Jo leans against the Impala’s warm hood and pulls off her boots.

John, for no reason he can explain, follows her in. He flicks on the old desklamp that illuminates Bill’s workbench. Lord, but it is warm in here. Those pioneers really knew how to build a barn.

“Ugh. Got into my socks,” complains Jo, banging her boot against the Impala’s bumper to knock the snow loose. “Look!”

She extends one long leg in John’s direction. Aesthetic barn decorating had required her to stand in a snowbank at one point and boss Sammy around (“no, not that one—the strand with all the blue in it. Yes. That one. ‘S’gotta go farther to the left. Other left!”), so John isn’t surprised. There’s no need for him to actually touch her foot to ascertain that her sock is, in fact, damp from the snow. But he does. He reaches right out and cups her heel in his hand. And then, somehow, his fingers have snuck past the bunched up woolen cuff to touch her ankle. He looks up to see that she is staring at him, fearlessly. She bites her lip, then flexes the foot in his hand. 

“Take it off,” her voice sounds husky, like she’s talking about something far sexier than a mismatched ragg sock. 

John obeys. Peels away the socks: left foot, then right. He’s never had a—wadda they call it?—a foot fetish. But he has to admit Jo has lovely feet: long and pale with the nails painted a cheerful Christmas red. He likes that little touch of vanity. He runs his thumb up her sole; the tickle makes her toes clench. John feels the little bones there, so delicate in his big rough hands. Those hands go from cupping her heel to sliding up her calf, to catching the crook of her knees. Suddenly he’s fallen into kissing her, leaning her into the hot metal of the Impala’s hood. They’re still completely dressed in winter layers except for Jo’s pretty bare feet. 

John can taste the way Jo gasps around his tongue when her toes inadvertently touch the cold chrome bumper. She hitches her legs around his hips and wraps her arms around his neck. She is small and light by comparison that it is no effort at all to carry her until he can pop open the Impala’s door and deposit her on the wide, old-fashioned back seat. When he starts to back away, Jo’s fingers dig into the layers of his clothing and a protesting whine escapes from where she’s sucking on his tongue.

“Comin’ back, darlin’,” John promises between kisses. “Gotta…close. Barn door.”

“Too late,” Jo mutters against his jaw. “Horse’s run.”

John has half a minute to consider as he fumbles with the cold metal latch on the barn’s huge door. It had been mostly pulled shut, but he can see the Roadhouse glimmering halfway down the hill. Just beyond it, the highway and then the rest of the dark Nebraska prairie. Behind him is the Impala, warm and gently lit by the old desk lamp, with its generous back seat made for necking at the drive-in. And waiting in the backseat, a very willing young lady who is definitely not a virgin. It is as close to private as he’s likely to find, sharing a house with the young lady’s mother and his own sons. Knowing the arrangement he’s made with Ellen, John couldn’t have planned things better. Even though he’s barely let himself think about it since that conversation with Ellen. He’s barely planned anything at all. As he pulls the barn door firmly closed, a thought pops into his head: had Jo?

She is still waiting for him in the back seat, of course. In the time it took him to wrestle the door closed, she’s shed her barn coat and the sweater she was wearing underneath. She’d started in on her plaid shirt: John can see a creamy slice of skin where the buttons have been undone. He doesn’t think she’s wearing a bra. Her bare feet pale against the Impala’s dark leather. 

“C’mere,” she says. “Letting all the heat out.”

John shrugs off his own coat before sitting next to her. No sooner has his ass hit the leather than she’s thrown a leg over him and settled into his lap. Right over his dick.

“Kiss me some more,” Jo demands and by now John knows just how her hips will squirm so he does. It’s good. She’s gratifyingly eager, if a little too hasty. John guesses she’s been wanting for awhile, lonely and curious in town where _good girls don’t_. Having to make the most of whatever minutes she could scrounge away from eagle-eyed Ellen. Of course, if she carries on like this with boys her own age, things’ll be over almost before they start.

“Slow down, baby,” he croons, letting his kisses work down her throat to her collarbone. “Got all the time in the world.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Jo retorts. John knows that is her usual snarky retort—a little breathier now, to be sure. Her way of letting him know he’s getting a little too protective, a little bossy for a guy who only swings into her life a week or so each year. But in the moment, John’s response is visceral. His big hands tighten around her waist and he pulls her tight to him. He knows she feels it—feels him—because she gasps and her thighs clamps around his.

“Daddy!” breathier still this time, trying it on for size. Liking the way it feels in her mouth. John can feel her chest expand when the word hisses out. Which reminds him…

She goes still when he starts working at the rest of her shirt buttons.

“This okay? Such pretty li’l tits,” he murmurs into her hair. “Can I touch ‘em?” 

Jo nods, but John doesn’t move until she stirs and stutters: “yes, yeah—please?” Lesson the first: use your words. Her breasts are a full, firm handful, nestling perfectly into John’s cupped palms. He can feel them swell with Jo’s shaky breaths. She whines when he thumbs her nipples.

“Too much?”

“N-no. It’s good. Could y—uhm? A little, uh, more…?” She doesn’t sound hesitant. Just maybe a little surprised. John wonders if somehow, in their eagerness, she and Dean have somehow skipped second base? 

That, John decides, would be a fucking shame. He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything as pretty as Jo Harvelle when he slips the soft flannel off her shoulders. She is not, in fact, wearing a bra. John can’t decide if that means she was hoping something like this might happen, or not. Either way, she’s almost small-breasted enough to get away with it under several layers of winter clothing. Her tits are small, perfect handfuls. They’re perky and firm enough to stand out from her chest, tipping up toward puffy nipples. The nipples are shockingly large on her small breasts. They pucker instantly despite the heat they’ve generated in the Impala. 

John skims one finger along the curve of Jo’s tit, circling around one nipple. “I’m going to put my mouth right here,” he warns, because it’s looking more and more like she hasn’t played like this before. 

Jo nods and John keeps his eyes locked on hers as he dips his head, skims his rough cheek along her breast and then, just when it starts to sting, turns and captures it with his mouth. Jo’s own mouth opens and closes and opens soundlessly as he tongues her nipple. She’s so sensitive that John can feel it swelling in his mouth. When he sets his teeth—gently, so gently—around the large bud of her breast, he feels her tremble, a whole-body shudder. He pauses, vaguely remembering that he’s meant to be teaching Jo. That a useful lesson would be “asking for what you want.” He barely has time to catch his breath, though, before she is begging (“more, more please!”) and tugging his hair. Lesson learned.

John suckles and Jo moves in time with his mouth. There’s no way she can’t feel how thick she’s gotten him.

“Jo? Jo, honey, I wanna touch you.”

Jo’s eyes have fluttered shut. “Yeah, ok,” she mumbles, trying to angle his head back to her tits. 

“Show me where?”

John thinks that might be too much, but Jo barely pauses to pop the button on her jeans before wriggling out of them. Her underwear is soaking and she moans, “yeah, Daddy, please,” when he wedges his big hand under the elastic and touches her pussy for the first time. Fuck; that hadn’t been one of John’s kinks until now. She grinds against his fist for a moment; then, unsatisfied, pops her nipple ouf of his mouth long enough to peel off her panties and guide his fingers right between her legs. She’s so aroused he thinks a finger on her clit will send her over the edge, but he hasn’t considered how _wet_ she is. One finger slides in almost without his intending to go that far, and then two and the Jo is panting and coming and moaning that she hadn’t even known it could feel like that.

“Oh, honey,” John kisses her. “It should always feel like that. At least like that. Better, if you can get it.”

“Yeah? You wanna show me better?”

John isn’t going to get a better invitation, but there’s one thing he’s never had cause to consider. He is—no way to put this delicately—bigger than Dean. Significantly. 

“Gotta go slow, baby,” John coaches. Jo literally _growls_ at him, because in Jo’s world, good things are always hard and fast.

“Shh, now, none of that.” He gets a firm grip on her hips and turns her. A minor tragedy because now he can’t see those gorgeous little tits, but worth it because of the whimper she makes when he gets the angle just right and eases his cockhead inside her impossibly tight body. 

“You got control when you’re on top,” John instructs, settling his hands on her hips. “Can go slow or fast or deep.” He moves her gently, illustrating, but only a little because he can tell she’s still learning how to stretch around him. “Good?”

“So big…going deeper’n….” She tails off into a moan before actually naming Dean but the knowledge that he was the last one inside her makes John go molten.

John eases her back against his chest, lets one hand rest low on her belly, feeling how she takes him, soothing her when she tenses up. That often happens when his other hand starts teasing her nipples, but he just can’t leave them alone!

It occurs to John that he should probably be wearing a condom. He knows Jo is on the Pill. Ellen wouldn’t have dreamed of asking his advice on anything like that, but they have fallen into the habit of filling each other in on their children’s medical histories. By nature, they are distrustful of the medical establishment and they’ve got no one else to help them make decisions. Also, John figures, if something happens to him, it would be good for some other adult on the planet to remember that Sammy’s mildly allergic to macadamia nuts and Dean had his wisdom teeth out at age thirteen. So, yes: he knows Jo has been warned to be diligent about taking her birth control. But he also knows he should be setting an example here. Young girls can be careless. Even the Pill isn’t one hundred percent effective. 

Ellen hadn’t been all that much older than Jo when she’d married Bill Harvelle and the whole of her small prairie town had figured it for a shotgun wedding. It hadn’t been: just young love, pure and simple. The only one pregnant that day had been Mary Winchester, wife to the best man, round and heavy with the baby who would be Dean. John doesn’t know where Jo stands on the subject of babies; now is certainly not the time to ask. But he can’t help but think on it when she gets her confidence and starts to move on him, bucking her hips and whispering “Daaaddyy…faster now, please.” 

She’d be a fearless mother, like her own. And she’d be gorgeous. John Winchester makes big babies, and Jo is tall but slender, a slip of a thing. If he were to knock her up out here in the Impala the week before Christmas, she’d probably be showing by St. Patrick’s Day. His hands skim up to cup her breasts, so compact the just barely bounce in his palms when she rides him. They’d swell if her got her pregnant…

“Faster!” Jo whines. Her hands come up to wrap around John’s wrists, holding him holding her, enjoying the feel of his rough hands on her tits. John figures that means she’s learned the lesson about asking for pleasure, so he pumps up into her hard enough that she has to brace her hands against the roof of the Impala. 

“Oh, yes, oh yes, ohyesyesyes!” Jo tosses her head. John leaves on hand to pluck her extraordinary nipples and touches her clit with the other. It is easy to find: she stretched around his girth. She starts to shake in his arms.

Damn, she’s so tight! John can feel every ripple of her orgasm. He holds out as long as he can—he thinks she cums twice—before he kisses the sweet skin between her shoulder blades and lets himself go.


	3. if Daddy had only seen

When Jo had turned twelve, a weekend of watching HGTV marathons at her grandmother’s house had prompted her to take over the Roadhouse attic. Bill Harvelle’s mother has disapproved of Ellen since they day he first brought her home for dinner, but Ellen has played nice for nearly twenty years now because Bill’s parents are the only other family Jo. So Ellen had agreed to let Jo move her things from the small bedroom on the floor above the bar. Next time the MacCarthy brother has passed through, she’d hired those carpenters-turned-hunters to rip down the rickety old access ladder and replace it with a proper staircase. She’d helped repaint the peaked attic room—a cool, minty green—and even run up curtains for the oddly shaped dormer windows. She’d hired some hunters with carpentry experience to rip down the old ladder and replace it with a proper staircase. The room that had been Jo’s now holds the sewing machine and canning supplies; Ellen is not what you’d call “traditionally domestic,” but she was brought up on a farm and she never forgets anything. There’s also a foldout couch where John Winchester sleeps when he is passing through town. Sam usually gets the couch in the living room, although at the rate he’s growing, he’ll soon be too tall for it. And Dean sleeps wherever he falls.

Ellen and John don’t talk often, but when they do, they talk a lot about their kids: no one else to tell. John knows about everything from Jo’s booster shots to her birth control, so it is only fair that Ellen knows about Dean’s inability to sleep in a real bed in any private house. When the boys were younger, John stayed for weeks with Bobby Singer, a month or two with Pastor Jim. And every night, he’d put Sammy and Dean to bed, and every morning, he’d find Dean fast asleep…on the kitchen floor, in a dining room chair, in Bobby’s bathtub. Dean’s never grown out of the habit. There are no night terrors, no sleepwalking, but Dean Winchester simply will not sleep a wink in bed in any person’s house. Meanwhile, John says the boy has no trouble at all sleeping in motels, hotels, and campsites of all manner. Ellen herself has watched Dean nod off more than once in the backseat of the Impala. It cannot be denied: John Winchester’s oldest sleeps like the dead anywhere except a proper bedroom. 

So when Ellen goes looking for Dean, late one night just before Christmas, she barely even glances at the closed door of Jo’s old room. John’s fast asleep in there, and Jo tucked up in the attic room. Ellen knows what the two of them are getting up to, of course, but she supposes some sort of chivalry prevents John from actually sleeping in Jo’s bed. As expected, Sam is asleep in a nest of blankets on the living room sofa. Silently, Ellen unlocks the door that leads from the apartment down to the Roadhouse. Light filters in from the highway; enough to see that the evening shift has left the place spotless. (Good; Ellen had to give Justin, one of the weeknight bartenders, a talking-to just last week and she would hate to have to fire him right before the holidays). Curled up in the corner booth in a sleeping bag: Dean Winchester. 

Ellen eases next to him on to the upholstered bench. She gives his arm a gentle tug and is not surprised to feel him lean back against her, still asleep. She’s been watching the Winchester boys for years: John and Sam can be a little ascetic, slightly distrusting of anything that seems too good or too easy. But Dean likes his pleasures and is quick to give in to temptation anytime it offers itself. 

Maybe too quick: it is nothing for Ellen to ease an arm around his waist and pull Dean close enough to nuzzle the space where his neck curves into the hoodie he sleeps in. None of the Winchesters have proper pajamas; they’d sleep in their boots if Ellen would let them.

Dean mumbles contentedly in his sleep. Deep down, Ellen has always suspected he just wants to be held. He smells like Irish Spring or one of those other cheap fresh soaps that come two for a dollar at truck-stops. Under that, just a hint of sleep-sweat. God, he’s delicious. Ellen can’t resist touching her tongue to his skin for an instant. She feels him move against her, start to waken.

“Dean? Dean, baby?” Ellen whispers. She doesn’t want to startle him.

“Huh?” Dean arches against her, stretching as he wakes up. Her hand slips under his sweatshirt, briefly brushing the firmness of his abs under a thin tshirt. He rubs his eyes with the back of one hand, a gesture that makes him look like a little boy again. “Ellen?” His voice is rusty with sleep.”’S’wrong? Sammy?”

“Fast asleep,” Ellen assures him. “And so is your dad.”

“Oh. ‘Kay then…” Dean sags against her with the knowledge that his family is safe. His head tips against her shoulder. He is just barely awake, still befuddled and barely above the surface of that deep, teenaged sleep. 

“You should come to bed.”

“M’okay, gonna sleep right here.” Dean’s eyes have closed again.

Ellen intends to point out that she never said anything about _sleep_ , but she’s never been much good at resisting temptation herself. His beautiful mouth is warm and slack under hers when she kisses him. His body responds to the kiss—his tongue darting to meet hers—before his mind. 

A second and he pulls away. “Ellen?! Uhm, I—” Dean bites his lip, an adorable, confused express his face, his eyes darting. “Sh-should we be..?”

“Shh,” Ellen soothes. “Just wanna kiss you, baby. That sound good?”

He’s already leaning up into it when she shifts herself to straddle him. His body jerks under her and when Ellen fumbles her way under the bunched up sleeping bag, she can feel his cock hardening under his sweatpants.

“S-sorry,” Dean mumbles, his kisses sliding down her jaw. 

“Don’t apologize, babe…just let me…”

Dean presses his forehead to Ellen’s shoulder and moans when she pulls his dick free from his clothing. She trails the fingers of her free hand down the nape of his neck. Bare and vulnerable.

“You like that, Dean? Tell me I can touch y’here, babe?”

He nods and she can feel the heat of his blush through her thin pajama top. 

She tugs his hair until he turns his head. “Tell me.”

Dean’s cheeks are flushed; his eyes glitter. His hoarse words are whispered but unmistakable: “Please, Ellen. Please. Touch me.”

Ellen rewards him with a kiss; she feels his mouth open on a groan when she thumbs the head of his cock. Who knew Dean Winchester would be a noisy fuck?

Dean’s draped his arms around Ellen’s hips, his thick shaft jutting up between their bodies. She pumps him, root to tip, and his hands grip the tail of her pajama shirt, pulling hard enough that the button at her collarbone undoes itself. He _whines_. Ellen nips his earlobe: Sammy is sleeping just above and he doesn’t know anything about the arrangement Ellen made with John.

“Sorry, sorry—oh, God, just…again!”

Ellen jacks him firmly with her right hand and undoes her pajama buttons with her left. She doesn’t sleep in a bra and her breasts are soft and heavy. She’d been as small as Jo once; gone up two cup sizes when she’d been pregnant and nursing; refused to apologize for it. Not that it seems Dean might want her to: his eyes are wide awake now, his amazed face stained with reflected red and green—the Roadhouse Christmas lights shiny through the fogged up window next to the booth. Ellen can feel Dean’s cock twitch in her fist; her nipples pucker under his hot, shuddering breaths.

“C’mere,” she runs her fingers through his hair the pulls him closer. His tongue, sweet and hesitant on her nipple. “Yeah, that’s it. L’il more…” His lips, his teeth. 

Ellen cradles Dean to her, one arm around his broad shoulders while he suckles her. She works his cock with her other hand. It doesn’t take long before he is spurting beneath her; his hips writhing under her weight. She cleans him with the edge of the sleeping bag; he’s already so sensitive he practically trembles at the touch of cloth. 

Dean watches, dazed but nowhere near sleepy, as Ellen climbs off him and buttons up her pajama shirt. She bundles up the sleeping bag (she’ll drop it in the washing machine on her way upstairs) and holds out her hand. He takes it, following her meekly across the quiet bar and all the way up to her bedroom.

By the time they arrive—creeping past a sleeping Sam—and Ellen lets Dean press her up against the closed door, he’s getting hard again. Ellen chuckles: Christ, teenager! Dean’s pulling clumsily at her buttons, eager for her tits, and Ellen has to put her hands on his to still him.

“Slow down,” she murmurs. “No, don’t apologize,” she adds, seeing him open his mouth to do just that, “but don’t rush. Wanna see you.”

In fact, Ellen keeps her pajamas on until Dean has removed every stitch of his clothing. She climbs onto her bed and watches as he peels off his sweatshirt and then the faded old tshirt. “Everything,” she says and he pulls down his sweatpants and boxers, stepping of clothing. He stands there, too awkward to know how beautiful he is, young and strong, his curved cock so hard it nearly reaches his navel.

“Touch yourself,” Ellen directs and Dean’s hips cant forward as he wraps his hand around his dick. He sighs at the touch of his own hand and then bites his lip.

“Let you in on a secret,” Ellen says, “we like to hear you.”

“Unh,” Dean’s hips snap forward like that’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. But then, “Sammy?”

“Guess you’ll have to come closer, then, won’t you?”

Dean moves slowly this time, settling next to Ellen on the bed and kissing his way along her chest as he undoes her buttons one by one. He pulls off the top and presses his hot face between her breasts; she hears him panting as he tries to keep control of himself. With both his big rough hands spread along her back, Ellen feels small. She leans away and since he won’t let go, they end up sprawled on the mattress; she luxuriates under his weight, letting him rub against the silky material of her pajama trousers. He turns his head to capture a nipple. Dean suckles _hard_ , making muffled, needy noises, and Ellen’s whole body goes hot. 

***

The next morning, Ellen hears Jo bounding down the stairs. It’d Friday, she recalls: the last day of school before winter break. A glance at the clock shows that Jo has overslept. By the time Ellen has pulled on her old flannel robe (Jo’s Christmas present three years ago), all she sees of her daughter is a flash of blonde ponytail heading out the door. By the time the coffee has finished percolating, John Winchester and Sam are ready to leave. “Gotta head to the library and the hardware store,” John reports. “Whole town’ll shut down over the holiday. Anything you need, Ellen? We can pick it up on the way.”

Ellen has half a mind to answer his question— _anything you need?_ —but Sam is standing right there, shoveling cereal into his mouth and trying to zip his hand-me-down jacket at the same time, lest the library close before he can get there. So she tells him to get milk and more cereal. In fifteen busy minutes, the Roadhouse has emptied: John to town with Sam in tow, Jo off to school. 

Ellen pours two mugs of coffee and goes back into her bedroom. She locks the door behind her. At the sound of the latch, the lump on her bed stirs. Dean’s head emerges from the blankets. His hair is too short to be mussed, but somehow he reminds her of some small woodland creature emerging from its den.

“Here, baby.” She hands him a mug. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

“Uhm. Thanks.” 

Ellen doesn’t think he’s thanking her just for the mediocre drip coffee and the realization makes her blush. She’d ridden him into the mattress last night, fucked him until he’d had to bite the pillow to keep from waking the house. 

Despite what her neighbors think of an unmarried mother who runs a bar, Ellen is no femme fatale. But she enjoys the idea of being one, of slipping out of her robe and bringing coffee to the young lover waiting in her bed. She's not the type to go without, either—there have been a string of one-night stands and then a few hunters she sees more regularly—but they’ve been jaded men who didn’t begrudge her pleasure but who weren’t terribly interested in it, either. Dean, well...she’d had to tell him how to move, where to touch, when to bite. She’d stifled his moans against her breast and whispered into his ear. But he had listened. In fact, he’d been very compliant. Such a good boy. Now, she thinks, it’s time to see what he has learned. 

Dean’s mouth is hot when he kisses her. Literally hot. From the coffee. Ellen runs her hands over his muscled shoulders and the smooth skin of his back where it nips in to his waist. She drapes his body over hers. Unsurprisingly, he’s woken up hard. Strong and hard and young—God, so young, she hasn’t slept with someone his age since she _was_ his age. She likes his hot mouth on her nipples but pulls at his hair when he starts to go lower. She had that last night, guiding his head under the blankets and between her thighs. But there’s something else she wants this morning and it won’t be long before she hears the Impala signaling John and Sam returning from town.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean whispers when he slips inside her. He freezes, looking down at her with wide, green eyes.

Ellen arches beneath him. “Sorry—what was that? Couldn’t quite hear you…”

He blushes _adorably_. She cradles his chin in her palm, thumbs his sinful mouth. “C’mon; we’re the only ones here….” She slides her other arm around his waist, pulls so he moves deeper inside her. 

“Fuck!” —louder this time, almost a groan.

“Yeah? That’s what you wanna do? Wanna fuck me?” Ellen arches beneath him, spreading herself open.

“Y…yeah. Wanna. Wanna fuck you,” Dean gasps. “Wanna put. My mouth on you. On your. Tits. Wanna be. All the way. In you.” His hips surge forward with each panted phrase. He’s so eager that his body is forcing her across the mattress. Ellen has to put on hand up to keep from being forced against the headboard. Doing so bares her breasts and in an instant, Dean has dipped his head to mouth at them, grunting as he thrusts. 

Ellen cups Dean's asscheeks, feels the muscles flexing as he pushes deeper. She wants to show him the long, hard strokes she likes, but he’s so impatient. He’s got a good-sized cock for his age but she’d forgotten since last night: it gets suddenly thick at the base. She has to moan when he's all the way inside, has to. And he can’t hold out after that. He grinds against her; his breath starts to hitch. He's forgotten about being quiet: “El. Ellen. Oh! I’monna. I gotta…”

Dean is _gorgeous_ when he orgasms uninhibited. He rears back, still holding Ellen's hips to his, so muscles cord his arms and chest. His abs contract; his nipples are diamond-hard. His head is thrown back. His eyelids flutter. He cries out—“ah! ah! ah!”—as his body pounds into hers until he collapses on top of her, twitching and spent. 

“S-sorry. So good. Sorry,” Dean mutters against Ellen’s throat. “I should’a, uhm… D’you want me to—?”

“Shhh,” Ellen whispers. She furrows her fingers through his damp hair, nuzzles a kiss to his sweaty forehead. His body spasms, the aftershocks of his climax, and she locks her legs around his waist. She holds him, stroking his back as his ragged panting stills. She lets him press his hot face between her breasts, whispers dirty talk far more sophisticated than his. Before long…

“Jesus, Ellen…” Dean twist his head to look at her, startled. He can feel it, just as she can: he’s never even pulled out and he's getting hard again. 

Dean can go slower this time, easier. Ellen guides his hands to her thighs so he pins her legs wide, shows him how to work short and deep so the thick base of his cock stretches her. Since his hands are full, she cups her own tits, letting them overflow her hands. He licks his lips but can’t quite angle his head to kiss her. Her nipples are red and swollen, almost sore, from his sucking. He can’t take his eyes off of them. When she touches them, her whole body floods with liquid heat. Ellen doesn’t even feel herself clenching down on his big young dick, but she must because he grunts and his hips buck. Three cycles of this and she feels her pleasure start to build, low in her belly where his cockhead is curved inside her. His thrusts are getting erratic. His mouth falls open (“ah! ah! ah!”). His hands leave her legs to reach for her just when she reaches for him. This orgasm is a frenzy: her hands on his ass, his mouth on her tits, both of them struggling across the rumpled sheets like they could meld into one body. 

When she becomes aware of herself, Ellen realizes she’s on top somehow. Dean Winchester is laid out under her, his chest working like bellows. She kisses his open mouth and his eyes blink open like a fairytale princess. 

“You did, right?” are the first words he can manage and he’s so sweetly concerned that Ellen has to kiss him again. He can be very considerate when he tries.

“Oh, yes. I did.”

A smug, lazy smile and Dean starts to shift from under her.

“Nooo,” Ellen whines. “Not yet!” She grips his hips with her knees, betting that no son of John Winchester would be rude enough to bodily move her.

“Mmmm, Ellen, I can’t.”

“Just once more…” Ellen coaxes. “Please, baby?” She tries to calculate: she’d brought him off twice last night, counting the handjob. Then twice again in the last hour. But he’s young. 

Dean groans at the loss when she climbs off him. Groans again when she peels off the ruined condom and takes his soft, tender dick in her mouth. “Nnnn—oh, Ellen. I can’t. It’s too much, it’s too—”

“You can,” Ellen adds a few kitten-quick licks. "I know you can.”

Ellen soothes him by petting the soft, sparse hair on his belly. Barely uses any suction. Just holds his cockhead against her tongue. Plays with his balls. And then she eases one finger between his asscheeks. She’s just got the one finger tip on his hole, but she feels all the muscles in his stomach tense. Ellen pauses, waiting. Dean’s cock twitches. She waits until she feels his leg shift, opening himself. His hand comes down to rest on her head. His fingers sift through her hair. His breathing grows shorter. His cock grows harder.

The last time he comes, Dean barely thrusts. Ellen straddles him and kisses him through the long deep slide: “So good for me, baby. Just one more time.”

He looks up at her with pleasure-glazed eyes, half-seated half-slumped against the headboard. She tugs a section of crumpled sheet from his loosely fisted hand and pushes it between their bodies. For a moment, it seems he has forgotten, but then his long fingers unfurl and he finds her clit. Ellen puts a hand on the nape of his neck and brings him to suckle. When he latches on, they both moan. 


	4. tucked up in my bedroom, fast asleep

They know better now. They know that while there’s fun to be had anywhere, some things are better in a real bed. That’s how they end up in Jo’s room at the top of the house. The jukebox honky-tonk of the Roadhouse is just barely audible up here and it is a busy New Year’s Eve, so it will be at least thirty minutes before anyone thinks to look for them.

Jo knows how to make it last: the second Dean closes her bedroom door, she drops to her knees. She peels off her sweater (once she’d been a split-second too late and John Winchester had come all over her; she’s shoved that shirt into the very bottom of her laundry hamper). 

Dean is already almost totally hard, but he knows it’s okay to let Jo hear how much he loves the little kitten-licks on his dick. (“We like to hear you,” Ellen had said.) So he strokes her hair back from her face and whispers about how good it feels, how good she is, until she swallows him down all the way. Then he lets her hear the way his breath comes faster and rougher as his hips begin to writhe. He spurts more than she can swallow. A smear ends up on her left cheek, another on her collarbone.

The first time that had happened—with John Winchester, in the Roadhouse washroom before school when there hadn’t been time for more—John had looked down at her with astonishment. “The fucking _mouth_ on you, girl,” he’d said, his voice rough from holding in the very sounds she was trying to suck out of him. And Jo had felt curiously proud: not only that she’d made him cum with just her mouth, but that she’d surprised him into losing control. Into cursing, when he’d always been so polite, called her _sweetheart_ and _darling_. He’d run a thick, calloused thumb along her jaw and licked off what had spattered there. Then he’d put out his hand to help her up from her knees. Dean cleans her, too: with his tongue, slowly working his way down to her breasts.

Dean knows how to undress both himself and Jo without ever abandoning her tits for more than a second. He’s wearing two pairs of briefs under his jeans. Always on the edge of an erection these days, he’s taken precautions ever since Ellen had gotten him and Sam matching novelty pajama pants for Christmas. Flannel printed with cartoon reindeer. Dean thought he’d done a fair job of hiding his morning boner by strategically holding the grimoire Bobby had sent in snowflake wrapping paper. But the flannel hadn’t concealed as much as he’d hoped. “Poor baby,” Ellen had teased when she’d asked for ‘help in the kitchen’ only to efficiently jack him off in record time before slapping his ass and sending him out to the living room with mugs of hot chocolate.

By the time Dean and Jo tumble onto her bed, at the end of a trail of strewn clothing, Jo’s nipples are diamond-hard. Dean can cover almost the whole of one breast with his mouth, which makes Jo shiver and dig her fingers into his biceps. They’re smaller than Ellen’s, but perfectly shaped ,each eith pale-pink aureola big as silver dollars. Dean can’t believe he hadn’t paid much attention to them before. 

Jo knows how to get a condom on one-handed, stroking his balls with the other hand. Dean knows how good it can be when he gets Jo on top, how her slight weight makes him extra-aware of his own body. Jo knows that if she rides his thigh he can feel how wet she is. Dean knows when his partner moves like that, she doesn’t want his fingers. Jo knows that if she cants her hips _just right_ , she can take Dean’s cock down to the root in a single, slow slide. (After all, she’s had bigger). Dean knows to put his hands on her ass when he thrusts up so she can’t escape when his pubic bone brushes her clit. Jo knows how sweet slow can be.

They know better, but they still don't know everything, of course. Jo doesn’t know how Dean will stare up at her, wide-eyed and astonished, when she finally sheathes him inside her. He looks so young and vulnerable that she just _has_ to twist down to kiss his panting mouth. Dean doesn’t know where the noises are coming from, the breathy whimpers and whispered curses as Jo starts to ride in earnest. That might be him grunting? That must be her chanting _daddy, daddy, daddy…_ Jo will grip Dean’s wrists, drag them up to cup her bouncing breasts with his hands. Neither of them will know whether her tits are sore from his suckling or because she is newly pregnant. And, for all they’ve learned, neither of them know what their parents are getting up to that very moment, two floors below in the little room that the bar staff calls the Utility.


End file.
